


With Eyes Wide Open

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe this party thing <i>isn't</i> going to be so awesome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Eyes Wide Open

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Party Favor](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/122442) by naotalba. 



It's a frat house. An honest to god _frat house_ , Pi Cappa Pi written in dead language over the white columns, a banner dangling from the overhang. Patrick feels his eyes go wide as he takes it in. Holy shit.

Pete grins at him, wide and smug, and links their fingers together before pulling Patrick through the doors after him. There's people all over nursing red plastic cups and thick, bass heavy music pumping through the sound system loud enough to shake the walls. Pete's hand is warm, and Patrick feels a stupid rush of giddiness sink in. This is kind of awesome.

The last party he went to was Sarah Mitchell's twelfth birthday party and that was nothing compared to this. He can't help watching everything going on around him a little bug-eyed. The fact that Pete asked him specifically to come with. Well. That's just the icing on this particular cake.

"Stay here," Pete shouts, leaned in close. His cheek is pressed against Patrick's, his voice a hot puff of air over Patrick's ear. "I'm going to get drinks." Patrick nods and roots himself in front of the awards case, staring in at the weird trophies in it. He'd never considered _Fastest Beerbong_ worthy of a trophy but, hey, there it is.

Pete's back in no time, shoving a beer stein into Patrick's hand. The liquid inside is dark amber and smells like the inside of his gym locker. Patrick makes a face, looking up to ask Pete what it is, but Pete's already shouting a quick _catch you later_ over his shoulder, navigating away from him. Patrick wrinkles his nose and frowns into his drink.

Maybe this party thing _isn't_ going to be so awesome.

The whatever-it-is in the mug tastes as gross as it smells, burning down his throat. He chokes, coughing the last of it down. If this is what drinking's like, he doesn't really see the appeal. Still, this is a real college party and he's one of the privileged few high school kids in attendance, so he's going to do this shit _right_.

Maybe if he drinks it faster, it won't be as bad.

He takes a deep breath, screws his eyes shut, and gulps down as much as he can manage in one go. It still makes him cough, but the taste is near non-existant, so that counts as a win.

When he tries to walk away from the trophy case, his legs feel a little wobbly. He frowns at them and takes a stubborn step forward. It goes a little better so he does it again. He's totally got this.

He wanders aimlessly from room to room, looking for familiar faces- Pete- and listening for any interesting conversations. Mostly, he just bobs his head to the music, weaving between people. He loves music. Music is _awesome_. This place is awesome, too, full of people that smile at him and help him from room to room when his legs get uncooperative, and the room's a little spinny, but that's sort of awesome in a different way.

Someone is in his way. Patrick runs into him, forehead to chest, and laughs as big hands grab him around the shoulders to keep him from toppling over. He looks a little like Pete when Patrick narrows his eyes, and Patrick misses Pete, even as not-Pete talks him into a dance.

Not-Pete, whose name is Matt as it turns out, has a nice smile and nice hands and nice freckles, and he doesn't laugh at Patrick's terrible, terrible dancing. He also doesn't laugh when Patrick- who is _sixteen_ , okay?- pops a boner, which is really a giant plus in his book.

Matt curls his hands around Patrick's hips and pulls him in, grinding against him. That- That feels _great_. Patrick clutches his drink with one hand and holds onto Matt's elbow with the other, thrusting against him more than dancing. Matt grins and leans down, mouth pressing to Patrick's ear.

"You want to go somewhere private?" Matt asks. The pointed tip of his tongue traces the shell of Patrick's ear, sending a quick jerk through Patrick's spine. And, oh, oh. That means Matt- who is really hot and hard against Patrick's hip, wow- wants to- Oh.

"I can't," Patrick mumbles, and is sad because of it. Oh, he'd really, really like to, but. He's just. He kind of has this stupid hope for _Pete_ to be the first one, because he's an idiot and hopelessly, hopelessly in love.

"You sure?" Matt asks, pressing his strong, lean thigh between Patrick's. Patrick moans against Matt's chest and rocks against him. It feels so _good_ , and Pete's nowhere nearby, and Patrick needs this like he needs air and more of his gross drink. Maybe Pete won't mind if he does _something_ about it.

"Okay," he says, tripping over himself as Matt leads him towards a row of rooms.

He takes another swig of his drink- there's too much left in the cup to be right- and laughs when he finds himself against Matt's chest again, looking up at Matt's face. Matt's got a nice mouth, and Patrick tells him so. Matt laughs, pulling back to thumb open his jeans.

"You too, dude," he says, grinning. His hands feel heavy on Patrick's shoulders, pressing lightly. Oh. Oh! Patrick tumbles down, balancing his drink precariously. It hurts his knees, but the dark look in Matt's eyes makes the dull ache fade to the back of his fuzzy brain.

"Wow," Patrick says as he tugs down Matt's shorts. Matt's cock is thick and long, damp at the blood dark head. Patrick would like a starter course before attempting the final exam, please. That's not fair.

"You're good, you're fine," Matt soothes, and oh. Oh, he's been saying that out loud. Whoops. "Just. Here." Matt's fingers curl into Patrick's hair, pulling him in.

Patrick has to brace himself against Matt's hips, held up by luck and the loose grip Matt's got on his head, his fingers white, white, white against Matt's dark skin. Matt draws in a sharp burst of air when Patrick wraps his mouth around the head, sucking experimentally. It sends a shiver down Patrick's spine, makes his dick twitch in his jeans.

Maybe this whole giving head thing isn't so hard. He lets Matt guide his head in a slow, steady rhythm, sucking as Matt's hips move back, licking sloppily at the underside when Matt presses in at steadily deeper intervals. There's spit gathering at the edges of his mouth, dribbling down over his chin, and that's kind of gross, but Matt's really hot, and Patrick really wants to get him off.

The floor's vibrating, the party sounds suddenly louder, and when Patrick looks up, there's three guys in the doorway, crowded around it like something out of a cartoon. Patrick can dimly recognize them from concerts, thinks _Misery Signals_ , and somewhere in the back of his brain, there's an itch like he should be feeling something that he's not.

"Dude," one of them says. The others echo it.

"Busy," Matt grumbles out, the timbre of his voice gone low and thick. Patrick tries to rub at himself through his jeans, but he goes a little off balance, falling forward just enough to trigger his gag reflex. "Fuck."

Then, there's hot, wet, bitter on his tongue, choking him, and Matt's pulling him back by the hair, insistent. It's not as bad as his drink, which is still sitting next to his knees, dangerously close to being spilled over. He wipes the back of his hand over his wet, swollen mouth and blinks up at the guys in the doorway again.

"Oh dude, me next," one of them says, and the others shove him, bickering and loud, shouting over the music.

"You okay?" Matt asks, leaning down to help Patrick up. He's got sweat at the edges of his hairline, his eyes a little unfocused, and Patrick nods, because, wow, he did that.

"Mix, dude, _share_ ," one of the guys say from the doorway, and Patrick's up, scrambling to grab his drink as someone drags him by the elbow back into the thick of the party.

Time does a funny thing, and it feels like he's been hit in the head by something with sharp edges, filling his brain with cotton and blurring the world at the corners. He feels himself moving, sees flashes of colors that could be t-shirts, hears a deep, rough voice in his ear. Someone's hand cups his still hard dick, and Patrick whines, squirming against the bodies that feel too close, too close.

"You're totally wasted," the voice says, and Patrick nods, his stomach roiling as the world shakes. Yes, yes he is. The hand on his dick presses harder, and Patrick's knees buckle and collapse under him.

There's people everywhere, a tight circle around him of dudes he knows from shows, faces a mass blur of light and color. Someone crouches and tips the cup in his hand up to his mouth, feeds him his weird, gross drink (he misses Pete, wants him close, wants to go home) and what he can't swallow runs in rivulets down his jaw, soaking into the collar of his shirt. It's sticky and wet, and his mouth hangs open after, sucking in breaths through his burning lungs.

Through the holes in the knees of his jeans, he can feel the wet patch of carpet under him, the roughness digging into his skin, and someone has a hand on his face, thumb slipping into his mouth. Patrick sucks on it because he can't do anything else, blinks up at the blurry face. This is like. Like practice. Like learning everything he'll ever need to know, and there's people _watching_ as the thumb is replaced by something else entirely.

The tight ring of people close in even tighter as Patrick wraps his lips around the head of this guy's cock, as he bobs his head as far as the dizziness will let him. The music pumps through the speakers, makes his heartbeat stutter and jump. Hands in his hair, a sharp burst of breath, and he's being turned far enough to face someone else, far enough for the next person to slide into his open mouth easy and quick.

Someone's laughing. Patrick can hear it through the other noises, can hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, and that not-feeling curls in his chest again, sharp and foreign as he's pulled back again, manhandled into a new direction.

Someone in the crowd drops down near him, a flash of blue eyes and freckles and orange hair out of the corner of his eye, and there's a hand undoing the buckle of his belt, rough fingers sliding in between his skin and the damp cloth of his boxers, wrapping around his dick almost hard enough to hurt.

The guys have stopped moving him, which his spinning mind appreciates, and have instead made some sort of pecking order, standing in front of him, fisting themselves in time to the rhythm Bob- Patrick thinks that's his name, he could be wrong, can barely remember his own name right now- has set.

Patrick curls in on the ache in his stomach, thrusting up into Bob's hand. It's dry, but it feels so _good_. A hand jerks in his hair, his hat gone- he wants his hat, feels naked and bare and exposed and needs it- and he has to look up at the blurry faces, has to see the guys crowded in front of him, jerking off.

He comes, groaning, going limp against whoever's holding his head back. His body's vibrating, like he's stuck on a rush, a high that he can't come down off of. He's still hard in his sticky jeans, dick pressing against the open fly through the dampness of his boxers, but Bob's gone, and he can't make his hands work enough to touch himself.

Someone comes on his face. It's hot; a slick, gross streak of warmth sliding down his cheek, and someone else adds to the mess. It hits his jaw, already going sticky in the hair of his sideburn. The laughter grows louder, and Patrick closes his eyes as the others finish.

Time goes funny again. He thinks he drank more, tried to drown out the taste of too many people (too many of the wrong people) out of his mouth, but he's not really sure. The carpet's still damp, and his jeans are still open, and he's hard enough to ache with the need to get off again.

"You okay?" Someone asks. Patrick dimly recognizes the voice from garages and basements, and when he opens his eyes, Bill Beckett is next to him, one hand around the curve of Patrick's arm, the fingers of the other slipping through the handle of the mug at Patrick's side.

"I want to lay down," Patrick chokes out, voice rough. He feels sick, all the liquor in his stomach sloshing around unpleasantly.

"Yeah," Bill says. "Yeah, okay." He knocks back the last of Patrick's drink and gives a determined sigh as he wraps his arm under Patrick's shoulder.

Somehow, Bill helps him up, staggering under Patrick's weight. Patrick's jeans are still undone. He really, really wants to do them up, afraid that they'll fall off if he doesn't, but Bill's leading him through the crowd, shouldering people older than them out of the way to clear a path.

They reach a bedroom which is, thankfully, empty. Bill helps him onto the bed, tumbling onto it beside him. He giggles and Patrick giggles too, because. Because. He doesn't really know. Things seem better out of the claustrophobic crush of people, and Bill's familiar and good, and the room isn't spinning quite as fast anymore.

"I'm going to get more beer," Bill says determinedly, sliding off the bed. He trips, and that's funny, too, and Patrick can't stop laughing, even though it's starting to hurt. "Stay here."

Like Patrick's got a choice. He snuggles into the covers, an open limbed sprawl, and tries not to close his eyes. The colors make him nauseous.

Finally noticing that his arms are free and functioning, he reaches clumsily for the fly of his jeans, wrestling with his boxers to reach his dick. A nap sounds really, really nice, but he has to get himself off first, has to make the pain curling in his gut disappear.

Oh, oh it feels nice, even though he can't really move with anything like rhythm, everything fluid like he's underwater. His eyes stay open, unfocused and blankly staring at the ceiling, his hips squirming as he tries to thrust up into his hand.

"Want some help?" Someone asks. Yes, Patrick thinks. Help would be nice.

The fuzzy thing in the door is a person. It gets closer, and Patrick can see red hair and a flash of tiny silver ball under thin lips, and then there's a face by his, hands on his shoulders hauling him up.

"Hi," he says, hand still curled around his dick. He knows that face. "Oh. Oh, hi Andy." Andy raises his eyebrows but doesn't answer. "You're a really awesome drummer, and you should play with us."

"Uh huh," Andy murmurs. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Just one," Patrick answers. He's kind of a lightweight. It's not fair. "Hi. Do you want me to suck your dick? I'm- I did that a lot tonight. I- Here. Watch."

Andy should definitely be their drummer, Patrick thinks, sliding haphazardly off the bed. His back scrapes against the mattress, the top sheet pulling down with him. If he does this, Andy will definitely join them, and they'll be a _real_ band, and that's what Patrick really, really, really wants.

"Patrick-" Andy's hand is on his head, fingers to his forehead, pushing him away. No, no, no.

"I want to," Patrick says, leaning forward against the pressure, reaching up to undo Andy's jeans.

"You're sort of really drunk," Andy says, like Patrick doesn't already know. Patrick hums, blindly shoving at Andy's pants. Something soft like skin is under his fingertips, and he just has to-

"I want to," he says again, petulant. He can totally score the band a really awesome drummer. Andy just has to _cooperate_.

The pressure on his forehead fades without entirely leaving, but it's enough for Patrick to inch forward, to press his nose to Andy's belly and to fist a hand around Andy's half hard cock.

Andy kind of smells like vanilla, a girly sort of thing that makes Patrick giggle a little as he slides his mouth over him, wet slick side of his heavy tongue against the smooth skin. Andy's hand slides from his face, dragging away dried flakes of come, down to his shoulder, fingers clamping down. When he tries to move his head forward, the world tips on its side, makes him feel off balanced. The solution is to make Andy move instead.

He lifts his heavy hands to Andy's hips, nails catching on the weirdly soft edges of Andy's belt. He presses forward against the swell of Andy's ass- oh, he's touching _Andy Hurley's ass_ , awesome- and Andy goes stiff, his fingers like claws on Patrick's shoulders.

"Don't," he says, rough and low. Patrick hums and pushes harder. He's got this. He's totally a pro after however many dudes in the living room. This is nothing.

He looks up, watches the sliver of Andy's labret flash in the dim light, and opens his mouth wider. Whatever resolve Andy had worked up dissolves, and his hips jerk forward, a steady, steady rhythm of _in, out, in, out_. His face is going pink, eyes hidden behind his glasses.

There's a noise at the door, but Patrick's too busy trying not to choke on spit, everything slow and hazy. Andy pulls out when he comes, a hand jerking forward to catch the mess, and all Patrick can do is smile up at him stupidly, blinking away dampness at his eyes.

"Fuck," Andy says softly. He fits his hands under Patrick's arms and lifts, then there's something solid against his back, soft and cool against the overheated skin of his face. "Fuck."

"Not that," Patrick mumbles, sleepy. "If you could-"

"Fuck," Andy says again for good measure. His hand wraps around Patrick's dick, and it doesn't feel as good as usual, the pleasure blunted by an aching soreness from being jerked off dry too many times. Still, it's quick, efficient, Patrick thrusting up towards it until the pressure builds into a white blur behind his closed eyelids.

Andy wipes his hand on the blanket and tugs Patrick's hoodie off, tucking him in like a kid. Patrick's shoes are gone, and he doesn't remember losing them. He hopes Pete can find them before they go home because he really, really likes those shoes and doesn't want to miss them.

"Sleep it off," Andy says softly, a warm hand passing over Patrick's too hot forehead. That sounds like a good plan.

His eyes are closed, sleep at the corners of his mind, when he feels someone tugging at his undone jeans. He squirms and kicks, groaning into the damp pillow. He's sweating, hot under the covers, hot all the way inside where he can't make it better.

The person shushes him, a hum of sound, his jeans and underwear slipping off his legs to lay near them. He's hard again- afraid of what was in his drink, afraid that he'll be hard for the rest of his life, dizzy and sick for the rest of his life- and long fingers are pressing at the insides of his thighs, cool and insistent.

"No," he mumbles. His eyes feel glued shut, lids too heavy to lift. He tries to close his legs, tries to clench his knees together against the hands that keep moving them apart. "No."

"It's okay," the voice says, slurred and familiar. Bill. Bill's hands on his legs, Bill's naked hips against his, trying to squirm in. "It's just me."

"No," Patrick says again, a broken record. Panic wells up in him because Bill keeps pushing, fingers digging in, and Patrick doesn't want this, wants to keep it for someone else, wants to go home and sleep and curl into Pete's side where it's safe and okay, okay, okay.

Then he's crying. The tears unstick his eyes, clean his face. He jerks under the pressure of Bill's hands, the slow, underwater motions of his legs losing the battle making him cry louder.

"I'm sorry," Bill says. "I'm sorry, I just have to-"

There's a crash and Bill's weight is gone, the air cold where he had been resting. Patrick can't stop crying, confused and aching everywhere. He just wants to go home.

He finds his jeans somehow and tries to pull them on, his eyes blurred, motions all stop-jerk-halt. When he gets one leg on he gives up, reaching for his hoodie instead. It slides on easier, soft cotton inside scraping against his bare back and chest, zipper cool against his skin. There's noises, metallic and sharp, and a few muttered curses, and oh, oh thank god-

"Pete?" Patrick asks. Pete doesn't say anything, but Patrick knows it's him, knows the line of his back and the tense set of his shoulders. He’d know Pete if he were blind.

It seems like it takes Pete forever to get up from the door, to drop the silvery thing in his hand to the ground and turn to face him. Patrick feels exposed, hard and mostly naked on the bed, Pete's eyes tracking down over him slowly. Patrick sniffles, wipes the sleeve of his hoodie across his nose, and tries to crawl into himself.

"Hey," Pete says, toeing his shoes off. He looks sad- disappointed- as he crawls into the bed with him. Patrick has to close his eyes against it, the slow leak of tears finally coming to a stop. "If I hug you, will that make it worse?"

"Fuck. I don't know." Patrick turns in toward the arms that wrap around him, familiar and comforting. "I've never had this problem before." He's not really sure which problem he's talking about, but it's all true, too thick around him to be anything he's experienced before. Pete makes a soft sound against his hair, an agreement or an apology or something Patrick can't categorize.

He fumbles to get his own arms around Pete, pulling him closer. The ache in his head fades a little. Pete: the cure to hangovers. Patrick wants to laugh but can't find the voice to do it. Pete's warm and solid, and Patrick inches closer and closer, until his front is pressed flush to Pete's, his erection laying thick and heavy against Pete's thigh.

Pete doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move away either, even as Patrick rocks against him, trying to alleviate some of the pain. He wants to get off and then sleep for weeks. Something's nagging at the back of his brain, something that could be important, quick flashes through the _goodgoodowgood_ that's taken over his motor functions.

"Where's Bob?" He asks, mouth to Pete's throat. Pete tastes like sweat, clean skin under it, the scent of his cologne cloying up close. "No, not Bob. Where's Bill? He took the last of my drink."

"Shit," Pete mumbles,starting to pull away. Patrick makes a noise of protest, a whine in the back of his throat that echoes in his head. Pete shushes him, presses him back down, before turning to look at a lump of a shadow in the corner.

The shadow is Bill, apparently, naked and curled into a ball, his cheek an angry red-blue-black. Pete prods at him, something dark across his eyes. The curve of his ass through his jeans makes Patrick's dick twitch, and oh. Ow.

"Pete," he says pathetically, curling around himself. "It hurts." Pete's watching him, and Patrick wants to wrap around him again, wants everything. "I can't make it go down. No one can.."

"Jesus, Patrick," Pete snaps. Patrick flinches, hunching in tighter on himself. "Have you just been walking around all night showing off your boner and asking for help?"

Patrick's bawling again. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he's messed it up, and now everything's _over_. The band and Pete and the stupid fairytale ending he's been hiding in his dreams, and it's _wrong_.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut in a weak attempt to cut the tears off. "I'm so sorry. I wanted it to be you, but I couldn't find you, and I'm _sorry_."

His mouth's moving, words pouring out at their own speed, his heavy tongue tripping him up. He can't stop talking, can't stop crying like a stupid _kid_. He just wants to start over and dump that stupid fucking drink out on the floor.

"Shh, I got you." Pete's sliding into the bed with him in his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, reaching for him. Patrick chokes back another sob and kicks off the leg of his jeans that's still clinging to him.

"Pete? It's okay now, right?" He asks. Pleads. Please, let it be right. Let it be what he's thinking it is. "You'll take care of me now, right?"

Pete's silent for a moment, fingertips sliding through Patrick's hair, parting the dirty strands gently. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than Patrick can remember ever hearing it.

"You're probably sore everywhere by now."

"Yeah," Patrick says, laughing. That's all he's worried about? Thank _god_. "That guy from 7 Angels 7 Plagues is hung like a horse. My jaw might be dislocated." There a pause, Pete's fingers still moving gently through his hair.

"If your jaw's that sore, I'm surprised you can lie on your back," Pete says stiffly, like it hurts. And, what? What's that got to do with- "Your ass could keep up with that? Jesus, Patrick-"

"No." Patrick rolls, tries to grab onto Pete before he can decide to get up and walk away, and finds himself laying on top of Pete instead. He feels his hoodie slide away. Feels his naked chest pressing to Pete's soft t-shirt, and can only think _no, no, no, no_ , can only think _please understand_. "I didn't- I couldn't wait for you for everything, it was hurting, but I waited for that. I told Bill to stop, I did!" His mouth's running again, a distant soundwave that takes a back seat to the feel of Pete's hand sliding down his spine.

"Shh," Pete says again, his other hand an anchor on Patrick's hip. "I've got you." Patrick presses up against the hand that's found its way to his ass, hums a sharp, pleased sound when the rough pad of Pete's index finger touches his asshole.

"See," Patrick says. "Just for you." He grinds down against Pete's hip, Pete's dick hard against his, and whines. It hurts, but it feels so good, and Pete's pulling away again, pressing at his shoulders and tipping him off to the side. "Where are you going?"

"Just," Pete stabilizes him on his side, his eyes running down the length of Patrick's body again. If he could, Patrick would totally preen. As it is, it's all he can do to stay propped up, watching Pete back away. "Hang on."

Pete scruffs his shirt, tossing it away as he hangs over the edge of the mattress. The line of his back is long and firm, and Patrick wants to touch it, wants to pull Pete back and hold him and fuck him and just. He _wants_. Pete pops back up, too fast for Patrick's dizzy brain, and jerks open the side table drawer, tossing things to the floor as he roots through it.

"Fucking yes." Pete flips back over, reaching for Patrick again. He's got a bottle of- oh. Oh, awesome. He's got a bottle of lube in one hand, a shiny foil wrapped condom on the mattress next to him. He squeezes a hefty amount into his palm, guiding Patrick's hips forward. "Yeah, like that." Patrick thrusts into the loose circle of Pete's fist, the slick slide of it fucking _perfect_.

The hand goes, which is just _wrong_ , but Pete's squirming out of his underwear, naked and scootching towards Patrick determinedly.

"Come here," he says softly, hand tucking under Patrick's knee and lifting. Patrick wraps his leg around Pete's waist, presses the heel of his foot against the back of Pete's thigh. "It's okay. I got you."

Pete's hand slides across his hip, palm resting for a moment against the swell of his ass cheek, slick with lube. Patrick groans when one of Pete's fingertips presses gently into him.

It feels weird but also really nice, and it doesn't hurt _at all_ , not like he thought it would. He jerks back onto it, his dick pressed between their bellies, rubbing against Pete's taut skin. A second finger joins the first, a burn running through his spine and settling in somewhere near his heart.

The third finger hurts a little, but this means that they're close. That Pete's going to be _fucking_ him soon. Patrick can't stop himself from rocking down against him, mouth open and leaving a wet spot against the thorns at Pete's collar. He's ready, he's ready, he's _been_ ready. Pete's driving him crazy.

He hears the condom wrapper tear, feels Pete's fingers slide free, and thinks _finally_ , but then Pete's climbing over him, disappearing from view.

Pete's mouth on his is wet and slick, messy and _Pete_ , and Patrick tries to kiss back, his neck twisted strangely, fingers gripping Pete's arm maybe too hard, but it's mostly just his lips sliding against Pete's, uncoordinated and sloppy.

Pete pulls back, breathing hotly against Patrick's shoulder, and then he's pressing inside, a quick _pop_ in Patrick's ears. Pete's mouth is on his again, but Patrick can't do anything but squirm, breath leaving him in an unsteady rush as he shoves back, feels Pete's stomach press flush against his ass.

“Fuck, Pete," he gasps out, eyes sliding shut against the wave of _yesrightgoodPete_. "Talk to me. Tell me it’s you. It’s been a fucked up night, I need to hear you.” Needs to _know_ it's Pete moving inside him, needs to know he's not with Bill or Bob or Andy or Matt. Pete mouths at his shoulder, his neck, wet and slick, his hips slamming forward hard enough to make Patrick's breathing stutter.

“So fucking hot that you saved yourself for me," Pete says against his ear, a sharp nip of teeth against the lobe making him whine. "So fucking turned on all night. Saw you taking Hurley’s dick in that pretty mouth of yours and wished it were mine.” Patrick rolls his hips, tilts his head back. He's going to suck Pete dry as soon as he can see straight again. “So fucking tight, even as fucked up as you are." Pete moans softly, nosing the soft spot behind Patrick's ear. "So fucking responsive, aren’t you? Do you think I can make you come just like this?”

Patrick groans. _Please,_ he thinks. _Anything._ Pete's fingers dig into his hip, nails a sharp pressure against his skin, his thrusts harder. Faster. Blunt teeth drag down the nape of his neck, bite at the knob of his spine, and then Pete's hips jerk back, his cock sliding wetly against the small of Patrick's back as he comes.

Patrick whines, throwing an arm back to touch Pete's chest, Pete's tight, trembling stomach. He wants- He needs- He clumsily shoves three fingers into himself, pressing back against them like they're Pete. It doesn't feel as good- isn't as good- but when he wraps his other hand around his sore dick, he feels his balls draw up, feels his stomach go tight. So close, so close.

"Want to see you lose it for me," Pete breathes against it jaw, licking a broad line across his throat. Patrick whines, coming hard enough to see spots, bright colors dancing in the darkness behind his eyelids. Pete's hand shoves his away, squeezes hard enough to hurt, and Patrick nearly yells into the pillow, the sharp spike of pleasure knocking something loose in him.

He's aware of Pete wiping something soft against his stomach, aware of Pete's arms closing in around him, all warm skin fitting against his back. After that, the world goes dark.


End file.
